Showing posts with label Michael A. Kechula. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Michael A. Kechula. Show all posts
AIN’T LOVE GRAND?
By Michael A. Kechula
When the Governor visited the state orphanage, the children lined up to greet him. As he passed each child, he asked, “What do you want to be someday?”
“A nurse," said a girl.
“Very commendable. We never have enough of them.”
The next kid said, “A policeman.”
“Wonderful. Crime is increasing every year. We’ll always need brave police officers to protect us.”
The Governor approached Billy. “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A pizza.”
“Why a pizza?” asked the startled man.
“Nobody loves me. But everybody loves pizza.”
“He’s a lunatic! There’s no sense squandering taxpayer money on the likes of him. Abandon him in the forest.”
The Director of the orphanage tore off Billy’s T-shirt that said, ORPHAN. He gave Billy a new one that with much larger letters that read, LUNATIC.
Billy was placed on a helicopter and taken to a dense forest.
When the helicopter descended to a few feet from ground, the Director threw Billy out. Landing on his head, the boy was unconscious for three days.
Billy awoke when a fluffy tail tickled his face.
“What’s a lunatic?” asked a chipmunk, pointing to Billy’s T-shirt.
“I think it’s somebody who wastes tax payers’ money.”
“What else are you, besides a lunatic?”
“A boy. But I wanna be a pizza.”
“Why?”
“I wanna be loved.”
“What kinda pizza do you wanna be?”
“Pepperoni.”
“Well, you came to the right place,” the chipmunk said. “Stand over there under that magic tree.”
The moment Billy was under the tree, the chipmunk mumbled strange words and waved a magic wand. Within seconds, Billy transformed into a pepperoni pizza.
“Are you happy now?” asked the chipmunk.
“Oh yes!” Billy replied, as he glanced at the pepperoni morsels, bright red sauce, golden cheese, and bits of oregano that he’d become. This is wonderful. Now everybody will love me. I don’t know how to thank you!”
“Thanks is nice, but I have lots of mouths to feed. You owe me three million dollars for casting the spell. How do you intend to pay—cash, check, or credit card?”
“Oh my. I’m just a poor orphan. Orphans don’t have money. Especially those who are lunatics.”
“You should have told me before I performed my services.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“True. But I assumed you knew that every professional expects to get paid for his services. After all, it cost me a fortune to get through eight years of Chipmunk Magic School. I’m still paying off the loans. What about friends? Do you think you can borrow some money from them?”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“Oh dear. I’m afraid I’m going to have to sell you to raise cash to pay my fee.”
The chipmunk whistled. Dozens of chipmunks came running from the bushes and gathered around Billy.
“My dear friends,” said the chipmunk magician (CM). “I did something good for this pizza, and now it tells me it can’t pay. I’d like you all to help me carry it to the city where I can sell it. Today’s market day, and this luscious-looking pizza should fetch a good price. Okay, everybody, put your hands under the pizza. On the count of three, we’ll lift it and take it to the Interstate. I’ll flag down a trucker and see if he’ll give us a ride to the town market.”
When CM said, ‘Three,” they lifted Billy. Soon, he heard the pitter patter of dozens of chipmunk paws striking the ground, as they carried him quickly through the woods. As the trees whizzed by, he was surprised at how fast the chipmunks ran. He started to think that he might have made a mistake and should have asked to become a chipmunk. He figured if he could run as fast as they did, he could win a gold medal in the Olympic Games 100 yard dash. Then for sure people would love him.”
“Hey, he called to CM. “I changed my mind. I wanna be a chipmunk like you guys.”
However, CM didn’t hear, because he was busy calculating how much he’d make selling the pizza at $2.50 a slice.
Before long, Billy heard the sound of passing cars and trucks.
The chipmunks laid Billy on the road. CM flagged down a huge truck loaded with logs. Unfortunately, the driver saw them too late, and ran over the pizza and all the chipmunks. He stopped his truck, and examined the squishy mess. A lover of road kill, he scraped the mashed chipmunk-pizza mess from his tires and the road, and plopped the whole shebang into a container.
That evening, the driver said to his wife and beautiful daughter, “I have a wonderful surprise for you: mashed chipmunk pizza.”
“I love chipmunk pizza!” the daughter said. “Especially when it’s mashed.”
As the gorgeous girl sank her sharp teeth into the mush, Billy sighed deeply and said, “I’m finally loved.”
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His stories have been published by 128 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s won first place in 10 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s authored three books of flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories: A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales, The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales, and I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
By Michael A. Kechula
When the Governor visited the state orphanage, the children lined up to greet him. As he passed each child, he asked, “What do you want to be someday?”
“A nurse," said a girl.
“Very commendable. We never have enough of them.”
The next kid said, “A policeman.”
“Wonderful. Crime is increasing every year. We’ll always need brave police officers to protect us.”
The Governor approached Billy. “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A pizza.”
“Why a pizza?” asked the startled man.
“Nobody loves me. But everybody loves pizza.”
“He’s a lunatic! There’s no sense squandering taxpayer money on the likes of him. Abandon him in the forest.”
The Director of the orphanage tore off Billy’s T-shirt that said, ORPHAN. He gave Billy a new one that with much larger letters that read, LUNATIC.
Billy was placed on a helicopter and taken to a dense forest.
When the helicopter descended to a few feet from ground, the Director threw Billy out. Landing on his head, the boy was unconscious for three days.
Billy awoke when a fluffy tail tickled his face.
“What’s a lunatic?” asked a chipmunk, pointing to Billy’s T-shirt.
“I think it’s somebody who wastes tax payers’ money.”
“What else are you, besides a lunatic?”
“A boy. But I wanna be a pizza.”
“Why?”
“I wanna be loved.”
“What kinda pizza do you wanna be?”
“Pepperoni.”
“Well, you came to the right place,” the chipmunk said. “Stand over there under that magic tree.”
The moment Billy was under the tree, the chipmunk mumbled strange words and waved a magic wand. Within seconds, Billy transformed into a pepperoni pizza.
“Are you happy now?” asked the chipmunk.
“Oh yes!” Billy replied, as he glanced at the pepperoni morsels, bright red sauce, golden cheese, and bits of oregano that he’d become. This is wonderful. Now everybody will love me. I don’t know how to thank you!”
“Thanks is nice, but I have lots of mouths to feed. You owe me three million dollars for casting the spell. How do you intend to pay—cash, check, or credit card?”
“Oh my. I’m just a poor orphan. Orphans don’t have money. Especially those who are lunatics.”
“You should have told me before I performed my services.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“True. But I assumed you knew that every professional expects to get paid for his services. After all, it cost me a fortune to get through eight years of Chipmunk Magic School. I’m still paying off the loans. What about friends? Do you think you can borrow some money from them?”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“Oh dear. I’m afraid I’m going to have to sell you to raise cash to pay my fee.”
The chipmunk whistled. Dozens of chipmunks came running from the bushes and gathered around Billy.
“My dear friends,” said the chipmunk magician (CM). “I did something good for this pizza, and now it tells me it can’t pay. I’d like you all to help me carry it to the city where I can sell it. Today’s market day, and this luscious-looking pizza should fetch a good price. Okay, everybody, put your hands under the pizza. On the count of three, we’ll lift it and take it to the Interstate. I’ll flag down a trucker and see if he’ll give us a ride to the town market.”
When CM said, ‘Three,” they lifted Billy. Soon, he heard the pitter patter of dozens of chipmunk paws striking the ground, as they carried him quickly through the woods. As the trees whizzed by, he was surprised at how fast the chipmunks ran. He started to think that he might have made a mistake and should have asked to become a chipmunk. He figured if he could run as fast as they did, he could win a gold medal in the Olympic Games 100 yard dash. Then for sure people would love him.”
“Hey, he called to CM. “I changed my mind. I wanna be a chipmunk like you guys.”
However, CM didn’t hear, because he was busy calculating how much he’d make selling the pizza at $2.50 a slice.
Before long, Billy heard the sound of passing cars and trucks.
The chipmunks laid Billy on the road. CM flagged down a huge truck loaded with logs. Unfortunately, the driver saw them too late, and ran over the pizza and all the chipmunks. He stopped his truck, and examined the squishy mess. A lover of road kill, he scraped the mashed chipmunk-pizza mess from his tires and the road, and plopped the whole shebang into a container.
That evening, the driver said to his wife and beautiful daughter, “I have a wonderful surprise for you: mashed chipmunk pizza.”
“I love chipmunk pizza!” the daughter said. “Especially when it’s mashed.”
As the gorgeous girl sank her sharp teeth into the mush, Billy sighed deeply and said, “I’m finally loved.”
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His stories have been published by 128 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s won first place in 10 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s authored three books of flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories: A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales, The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales, and I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
ROB A STORE DAY
By Michael A. Kechula
Fred expected to have the time of his life stealing things at Santa Buffoona Mall during its annual Rob-A-Store Day.
That was the day the mall sanctioned robbery, giving customers an opportunity to act out shoplifting fantasies without being arrested. Kids were especially welcome. To encourage kiddy thievery, stores placed a wonderful array of highly desirable toys on tables low enough for tots to snatch.
The mall provided every participant a long black coat that was specially designed by the Mafia for shoplifting. They also distributed free masks to protect participants’ identities. Prominent citizens who joined the robbery festivities greatly appreciated this.
After thieves filled their coat pockets, they were to leave the mall and unload their loot onto tables for immediate recycling. Then they could go back inside for another round of theft. This cycle could be repeated until closing time.
When Fred asked why Santa Buffoona Mall sponsored such a bizarre event, they told him the mall had the worst record for shoplifting losses in the world. Consultants were hired to find ways to eliminate the losses. They suggested that the mall sponsor a Rob-A-Store Day to let customers act out shoplifting fantasies, without penalties. Thus, potential thieves of all ages would have an opportunity to experience how unglamorous and destructive shoplifting really was. Hopefully, once they gave it a try on Rob-A-Store Day, they’d never want to do it again any other time.
The experiment worked. None of the mall’s 100 stores reported a single loss from theft for two years. Mall management decided to repeat the special event every year.
Fred hurried to the mall on Rob-A-Store Day, hoping to snag some expensive items for which he’d lusted, but couldn’t afford. He figured if he couldn’t own them for real, at least he’d have the pleasure of having them in his possession for a little while.
After registering at a booth in the mall’s parking lot, he donned the mask and coat they gave him, and entered the mall. Inside, he saw shoplifters racing from store to store, grabbing whatever they could. People were elbowing each other, shoving each other, pulling things away from each other. A teenager got punched and fell to the floor with a bloody face.
An eighty-year old woman tripped as she raced toward a table filled with expensive handbags. “Ow! I think I broke my hip! Please help me.”
Nobody responded. They were too busy scrambling in all directions, manically grabbing everything in sight and jamming it into their shoplifting coats.
Although Fred felt a tinge of compassion when he passed the crying woman, he ignored her. “I didn’t come here to waste time helping injured people,” he mumbled.
The mall was so crowded, Fred was unable to snag any of the fancy items he’d hoped to steal. They were either already stolen, or he couldn’t get near them because of the crowds. So, in keeping with the spirit of the day, he grabbed whatever he could just for the sake of shoplifting.
Before long, his coat pockets were full of paint brushes, knick-knacks, scented candles, and women’s panties. He raced to the exit, unloaded everything on a collection table, and hurried back inside for another round.
After four trips to unload things that were of no interest to him, he realized he wasn’t having any fun. Especially since he’d been kicked, shoved, pushed, and almost knocked down.
During his fifth run, he was so caught up in the orgy of larcenous lunacy, he yanked a Beanie Baby from a seven-year old girl’s hand before she could stuff it inside her shoplifter’s coat.
Following his sixth trip, Fred decided to grab a snack at the food court. He found dozens of people showing each other what they’d shoplifted.
“Look at this neat Swarovski crystal chicken, I stole,” a kid told his mom. “The price tag says it’s worth $250.”
“I’m so proud of you,” said his mom. “Let’s eat fast so we can steal some more.”
A six year old girl said, “Mommy, look at all the Barbie dolls, I stole.”
“What’s so great about that? They’re a dime a dozen. I told you to practice snitching porcelain collector’s dolls. I ought to ground you for not listening!”
Returning to the fray, Fred found the situation even more frantic than before. Somebody was pushed through a store window. Store decorations were in tatters. Somebody’s blood was on the floor.
Unable to stand the pandemonium any longer, Fred hurried to an exit. After dropping his mask and thief’s coat on a table, he headed for his car. On the way, he was approached by a mall security guard.
“I got a complaint about you,” the guard said.
“Whadda ya mean?” asked Fred.”
“You stole a Beanie Baby from my daughter right after she shoplifted it. It’s against the rules to steal from shoplifters on Rob-A-Store Day. Poor kid has been practicing for months to swipe that particular Beanie Baby. And then you come along and botch things up.”
“I didn’t steal anything from a kid. You got the wrong guy.”
“She said the crook had red hair and blue tennis shoes. That describes you perfectly. Nobody robs my daughter and gets away with it.”
The guard knocked Fred unconscious. Calling his daughter with his cell phone, he said, “I found the crook who stole the Beanie Baby you swiped. Whadda ya think I should do with him?”
The following week, Santa Buffoona Mall announced its 1st Annual Piñata Day. The brightly decorated piñata kids saw in the middle of the mall was filled with candy, gum, and cookies.
Kids were blindfolded and given broom sticks. They were told to whack the piñata until it broke open and all the goodies fell out.
Instead of the traditional animal-shaped piñata, this one looked like a man with a bloated belly. Festooned with brightly colored tissue paper, it had the cutest red hair and blue sneakers.
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His stories have been published by 128 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s won first place in 10 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s authored three books of flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories: A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales, The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales, and I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
By Michael A. Kechula
Fred expected to have the time of his life stealing things at Santa Buffoona Mall during its annual Rob-A-Store Day.
That was the day the mall sanctioned robbery, giving customers an opportunity to act out shoplifting fantasies without being arrested. Kids were especially welcome. To encourage kiddy thievery, stores placed a wonderful array of highly desirable toys on tables low enough for tots to snatch.
The mall provided every participant a long black coat that was specially designed by the Mafia for shoplifting. They also distributed free masks to protect participants’ identities. Prominent citizens who joined the robbery festivities greatly appreciated this.
After thieves filled their coat pockets, they were to leave the mall and unload their loot onto tables for immediate recycling. Then they could go back inside for another round of theft. This cycle could be repeated until closing time.
When Fred asked why Santa Buffoona Mall sponsored such a bizarre event, they told him the mall had the worst record for shoplifting losses in the world. Consultants were hired to find ways to eliminate the losses. They suggested that the mall sponsor a Rob-A-Store Day to let customers act out shoplifting fantasies, without penalties. Thus, potential thieves of all ages would have an opportunity to experience how unglamorous and destructive shoplifting really was. Hopefully, once they gave it a try on Rob-A-Store Day, they’d never want to do it again any other time.
The experiment worked. None of the mall’s 100 stores reported a single loss from theft for two years. Mall management decided to repeat the special event every year.
Fred hurried to the mall on Rob-A-Store Day, hoping to snag some expensive items for which he’d lusted, but couldn’t afford. He figured if he couldn’t own them for real, at least he’d have the pleasure of having them in his possession for a little while.
After registering at a booth in the mall’s parking lot, he donned the mask and coat they gave him, and entered the mall. Inside, he saw shoplifters racing from store to store, grabbing whatever they could. People were elbowing each other, shoving each other, pulling things away from each other. A teenager got punched and fell to the floor with a bloody face.
An eighty-year old woman tripped as she raced toward a table filled with expensive handbags. “Ow! I think I broke my hip! Please help me.”
Nobody responded. They were too busy scrambling in all directions, manically grabbing everything in sight and jamming it into their shoplifting coats.
Although Fred felt a tinge of compassion when he passed the crying woman, he ignored her. “I didn’t come here to waste time helping injured people,” he mumbled.
The mall was so crowded, Fred was unable to snag any of the fancy items he’d hoped to steal. They were either already stolen, or he couldn’t get near them because of the crowds. So, in keeping with the spirit of the day, he grabbed whatever he could just for the sake of shoplifting.
Before long, his coat pockets were full of paint brushes, knick-knacks, scented candles, and women’s panties. He raced to the exit, unloaded everything on a collection table, and hurried back inside for another round.
After four trips to unload things that were of no interest to him, he realized he wasn’t having any fun. Especially since he’d been kicked, shoved, pushed, and almost knocked down.
During his fifth run, he was so caught up in the orgy of larcenous lunacy, he yanked a Beanie Baby from a seven-year old girl’s hand before she could stuff it inside her shoplifter’s coat.
Following his sixth trip, Fred decided to grab a snack at the food court. He found dozens of people showing each other what they’d shoplifted.
“Look at this neat Swarovski crystal chicken, I stole,” a kid told his mom. “The price tag says it’s worth $250.”
“I’m so proud of you,” said his mom. “Let’s eat fast so we can steal some more.”
A six year old girl said, “Mommy, look at all the Barbie dolls, I stole.”
“What’s so great about that? They’re a dime a dozen. I told you to practice snitching porcelain collector’s dolls. I ought to ground you for not listening!”
Returning to the fray, Fred found the situation even more frantic than before. Somebody was pushed through a store window. Store decorations were in tatters. Somebody’s blood was on the floor.
Unable to stand the pandemonium any longer, Fred hurried to an exit. After dropping his mask and thief’s coat on a table, he headed for his car. On the way, he was approached by a mall security guard.
“I got a complaint about you,” the guard said.
“Whadda ya mean?” asked Fred.”
“You stole a Beanie Baby from my daughter right after she shoplifted it. It’s against the rules to steal from shoplifters on Rob-A-Store Day. Poor kid has been practicing for months to swipe that particular Beanie Baby. And then you come along and botch things up.”
“I didn’t steal anything from a kid. You got the wrong guy.”
“She said the crook had red hair and blue tennis shoes. That describes you perfectly. Nobody robs my daughter and gets away with it.”
The guard knocked Fred unconscious. Calling his daughter with his cell phone, he said, “I found the crook who stole the Beanie Baby you swiped. Whadda ya think I should do with him?”
The following week, Santa Buffoona Mall announced its 1st Annual Piñata Day. The brightly decorated piñata kids saw in the middle of the mall was filled with candy, gum, and cookies.
Kids were blindfolded and given broom sticks. They were told to whack the piñata until it broke open and all the goodies fell out.
Instead of the traditional animal-shaped piñata, this one looked like a man with a bloated belly. Festooned with brightly colored tissue paper, it had the cutest red hair and blue sneakers.
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His stories have been published by 128 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s won first place in 10 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s authored three books of flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories: A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales, The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales, and I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
ENDANGERED SPECIES
By Michael A. Kechula
Liz shuddered, as Dr. Zangara approached with a huge syringe filled with murky yellow fluid. Though she agreed to participate in an experiment, she didn’t know it meant getting a ten inch needle rammed into her flesh.
“Do you really have to stick me with that awful looking thing?” she asked.
“It’s a necessary step so you can travel backward in time. However, the needle to go forward in time is much smaller. Do you prefer to travel into the future?”
“No. I want to go back five years and change things so I can marry the guy I threw away.”
“Then you must get this injection, and lay down on the rotating table.”
“But I thought you said you had a time machine.”
“The needle and table will have to do until the time machine I’m building is finished. Which will take ten more years. Do you want to wait that long to resolve your problems from the past?
“No.”
“Then let’s proceed. My time is very valuable.”
“Okay,” she said.
She screamed when he jammed the needle in her forehead. “You said it wouldn’t hurt.”
“It shouldn’t have. When I tested it on a dozen lab mice, none of them complained. Okay, I’m going to start the countdown from ten. When I reach one, my assistants will throw a switch that will start the rotating table. While it’s spinning, you may have the sensation that you'll fly off. It's only an illusion. The straps will hold you very securely. Okay, I’m starting the countdown now. Ten…nine…eight…”
Closing her eyes, she thought of what she’d do when she was transported five years into the past. She couldn’t wait to find herself sitting in a fancy restaurant with Harry, at the point where he offered her an engagement ring. This time when he showed her the ring, she’d scream, “YES!” and throw herself into his arms. Then two minutes later she'd be transported back to Zangara’s lab.
“…three…two…one.”
The table began to rotate. In no time, it was spinning at ten revolutions per second.
Suddenly, Zangara heard a loud pop.
“Oh hell!” he said. “She disappeared.”
“That makes twenty-three that have disappeared so far this month,” said his assistant. “Perhaps we should terminate the experiment before the authorities find out.”
“Never!” Zangara shouted. “I intend to win a Nobel Prize. Bring in the next woman.”
Meanwhile, Liz returned to the present. Instead of showing up on the rotating table, as Zangara had promised, she ended up inside a cage at the city zoo. She no longer knew her name was Liz. And she didn’t even stir when a male gorilla within the cage approached and stroked her furry body.
That evening, a courier delivered an envelope to Zangara. Inside was a check and a note of thanks for providing the zoo with yet another fine example of an endangered species. The note said, “We really appreciate your latest addition to our gorilla collection. At the rate you are supplying us, we’ll soon have the largest and finest collection of female gorillas in the world.”
- - -
Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His stories have been published by 128 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s won first place in 10 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s authored three books of flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories: A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales, The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales, and I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
TOYS
By Michael A. Kechula
When my wife left town to visit her sick mother, I hired a sitter and went to see a priest.
“What can I do for you?” asked Father Mahoney.
“Well, first off, I’m an atheist. So’s my wife. She’d go bonkers if she knew I was here. The thing is, something’s happened that boggles my mind. Something right out of the Twilight Zone. Since I consider all religions to be nothing more than Twilight Zone fantasies, I figure you might have some answers.”
“So what exactly is boggling your mind?”
“Remember last month when two planes collided in midair just outside of town?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. I was called to the crash site to give last rites. It was a terrible sight.”
“Do you remember the head-on car crash on the road to the mall that wiped out two families?”
“Yes. They were my parishioners.”
“Do you also remember when an ambulance lost control on Summit Road and flew over the cliff?”
“I remember all these things,” said Mahoney. “So what about them?”
“I think my six-year old son had something to do with all three accidents.”
“Oh? How could a six-year old possibly be involved?”
“Well, my wife and I were in the kitchen when Jimmy came in with two toy airplanes. One in each hand. He made airplane motor noises, making believe the planes were flying. Suddenly, he slammed them into each other, and let them fall to the floor. The very next day, the midair collision happened when two planes crashed outside of town.”
“Are you implying a cause and effect between what your son did with toy planes and what happened with two real planes?”
“It’s the only conclusion I can come to after all the other things that happened. For example, two days later, Jimmy held a red toy car in one hand, and a blue one in the other. He made motor sounds, and rolled them along the floor. He talked about them crashing into each other. He imitated all the sounds of screeching tires, and people yelling, and slammed the cars into each other. The next day, two cars had a head-on on the way to the mall.”
“Hmm. Were the cars in the accident red and blue?”
“Yes,” I said. “I checked with the newspaper. They put me in touch with the reporter who covered the story. He verified their colors.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me your son was playing with a toy ambulance the day before a real one flew over the cliff.”
“Unfortunately, yes. He was running a toy ambulance along the arm of the sofa, when he called out, ‘Look, Dad, the ambulance is out of control. It’s going over the cliff.’ He let it fall to the floor. It landed upside down. The next day, the same thing happened to County Hospital’s ambulance. The picture in the paper showed that it landed upside down.”
“It does sound quite strange,” said Mahoney. “But the world’s full of coincidences. However, our fantasies can sometimes get out of control. Perhaps you should discuss this with a psychiatrist. As to your son, I wouldn’t be overly concerned. Sounds like he’s normal, imaginative, and is just displaying ordinary boyhood aggression. My brother was like that. He was always crashing toys together, not to mention dozens of kids he shot with his cap gun. He grew up to become the CEO of Trans-Pacific Airlines.”
Checking his watch, the priest added, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have an appointment in five minutes with our Choir Master. Do come again any time you wish to talk.”
“I don’t mean to press the point, but is there anything you could do?” I asked.
“Sure. If I suspected something evil afoot, I could do a minor exorcism by blessing your house, your son, and even his toys with holy water. We never know what malignant forces can sometimes attach themselves to inanimate objects and create mischief. But you’re an atheist, so I doubt you and your wife would tolerate my presence and my performing religious rituals in your home.”
“You’re right about that. I don’t want my son exposed to anything religious. But it’s kind of you to offer. Thanks for your time. Would you accept a donation?”
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary. If you wish, you can put the money in the poor box inside the church vestibule. We’ll use it to feed the hungry.”
I shook his hand and left. As much as I dreaded going into a church, I went into the vestibule where I found the locked poor box.
That afternoon Jimmy was playing with his Tonka truck that had a crane in back.
“What are you doing?” I asked, when I saw that he’d put rubber bands around a wooden block, had run the crane’s hook under the rubber bands, and was turning a crank to raise the block.
“This block’s a giant piano. Somebody up high in that big building downtown wants to have it brought in through a window.”
When he elevated the block a foot off the floor, the rubber bands broke. The block fell onto a little plastic toy soldier.
“Looks like your soldier was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I said. A piano just fell on his head.”
“It’s not a soldier,” Jimmy said. “I’m making believe it’s a priest.”
“Why a priest?”
“I don’t know.”
Next day, a weird accident was reported on TV. A piano that was being delivered through an outside window at the downtown high rise apartments, suddenly broke loose. It fell six stories and crushed a priest named Myles Mahoney. He was about to enter the building to give communion to a shut in.
My hands shook, as I dialed the number of the Bishop’s office to plead for an exorcist.
- - -
Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His stories have been published by 128 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s won first place in 10 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s authored three books of flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories: A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales, The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales, and I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
By Michael A. Kechula
When my wife left town to visit her sick mother, I hired a sitter and went to see a priest.
“What can I do for you?” asked Father Mahoney.
“Well, first off, I’m an atheist. So’s my wife. She’d go bonkers if she knew I was here. The thing is, something’s happened that boggles my mind. Something right out of the Twilight Zone. Since I consider all religions to be nothing more than Twilight Zone fantasies, I figure you might have some answers.”
“So what exactly is boggling your mind?”
“Remember last month when two planes collided in midair just outside of town?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. I was called to the crash site to give last rites. It was a terrible sight.”
“Do you remember the head-on car crash on the road to the mall that wiped out two families?”
“Yes. They were my parishioners.”
“Do you also remember when an ambulance lost control on Summit Road and flew over the cliff?”
“I remember all these things,” said Mahoney. “So what about them?”
“I think my six-year old son had something to do with all three accidents.”
“Oh? How could a six-year old possibly be involved?”
“Well, my wife and I were in the kitchen when Jimmy came in with two toy airplanes. One in each hand. He made airplane motor noises, making believe the planes were flying. Suddenly, he slammed them into each other, and let them fall to the floor. The very next day, the midair collision happened when two planes crashed outside of town.”
“Are you implying a cause and effect between what your son did with toy planes and what happened with two real planes?”
“It’s the only conclusion I can come to after all the other things that happened. For example, two days later, Jimmy held a red toy car in one hand, and a blue one in the other. He made motor sounds, and rolled them along the floor. He talked about them crashing into each other. He imitated all the sounds of screeching tires, and people yelling, and slammed the cars into each other. The next day, two cars had a head-on on the way to the mall.”
“Hmm. Were the cars in the accident red and blue?”
“Yes,” I said. “I checked with the newspaper. They put me in touch with the reporter who covered the story. He verified their colors.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me your son was playing with a toy ambulance the day before a real one flew over the cliff.”
“Unfortunately, yes. He was running a toy ambulance along the arm of the sofa, when he called out, ‘Look, Dad, the ambulance is out of control. It’s going over the cliff.’ He let it fall to the floor. It landed upside down. The next day, the same thing happened to County Hospital’s ambulance. The picture in the paper showed that it landed upside down.”
“It does sound quite strange,” said Mahoney. “But the world’s full of coincidences. However, our fantasies can sometimes get out of control. Perhaps you should discuss this with a psychiatrist. As to your son, I wouldn’t be overly concerned. Sounds like he’s normal, imaginative, and is just displaying ordinary boyhood aggression. My brother was like that. He was always crashing toys together, not to mention dozens of kids he shot with his cap gun. He grew up to become the CEO of Trans-Pacific Airlines.”
Checking his watch, the priest added, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have an appointment in five minutes with our Choir Master. Do come again any time you wish to talk.”
“I don’t mean to press the point, but is there anything you could do?” I asked.
“Sure. If I suspected something evil afoot, I could do a minor exorcism by blessing your house, your son, and even his toys with holy water. We never know what malignant forces can sometimes attach themselves to inanimate objects and create mischief. But you’re an atheist, so I doubt you and your wife would tolerate my presence and my performing religious rituals in your home.”
“You’re right about that. I don’t want my son exposed to anything religious. But it’s kind of you to offer. Thanks for your time. Would you accept a donation?”
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary. If you wish, you can put the money in the poor box inside the church vestibule. We’ll use it to feed the hungry.”
I shook his hand and left. As much as I dreaded going into a church, I went into the vestibule where I found the locked poor box.
That afternoon Jimmy was playing with his Tonka truck that had a crane in back.
“What are you doing?” I asked, when I saw that he’d put rubber bands around a wooden block, had run the crane’s hook under the rubber bands, and was turning a crank to raise the block.
“This block’s a giant piano. Somebody up high in that big building downtown wants to have it brought in through a window.”
When he elevated the block a foot off the floor, the rubber bands broke. The block fell onto a little plastic toy soldier.
“Looks like your soldier was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I said. A piano just fell on his head.”
“It’s not a soldier,” Jimmy said. “I’m making believe it’s a priest.”
“Why a priest?”
“I don’t know.”
Next day, a weird accident was reported on TV. A piano that was being delivered through an outside window at the downtown high rise apartments, suddenly broke loose. It fell six stories and crushed a priest named Myles Mahoney. He was about to enter the building to give communion to a shut in.
My hands shook, as I dialed the number of the Bishop’s office to plead for an exorcist.
- - -
Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His stories have been published by 128 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s won first place in 10 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s authored three books of flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories: A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales, The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales, and I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
THE BIG SWAP
By Michael A. Kechula
In January, 2011, ten thousand UFO sightings were reported in the United States. The same month, over twenty thousand Americans reported they’d been abducted by Martians. After several days of captivity, all were returned to Earth. When questioned by the FBI, they claimed they were examined by strange looking creatures, then shown to the Emperor of Mars. They said the Emperor spoke to them through translating machines. The Emperor boasted he would soon conquer Earth.
Considering the seriousness of the abductees’ statements, the government insisted they take lie detector tests. Results showed all had spoken the truth. Consequently, President Kirk was convinced that Martians would soon invade Earth.
During an emergency cabinet meeting, Kirk said, "I’m preparing a message for transmission to Mars to arrange a meeting with the Emperor. We’ve must find a way to prevent interplanetary war.”
Kirk conferred with leaders of the Amalgamated Nations. All agreed with his conclusion and the content of the message he wanted to transmit to the Emperor. They selected Kirk to represent the interests of every nation on Earth.
Two hours after Kirk’s message was transmitted to Mars, he received a reply. The Emperor agreed to meet him in Roswell, New Mexico, site of the first Martian landing in America.
They met on the field where a Martian flying saucer crashed in 1947, killing its occupants. After an Army band played the national anthems of both planets, the Emperor laid a wreath to honor the aliens who died on that very spot.
“Let’s get down to business,” Kirk said. “I understand you intend to invade our planet. Why would you do such a thing?”
“I have no choice,” said the Emperor. “My astronomers discovered a comet twice the size of the Sun heading toward my planet. It will strike us and destroy everything. I must relocate all my subjects. Our surveys indicate that your planet would be best for us. I suggest you surrender now.”
“And if we do, what will happen to the billions that inhabit this planet?”
The Emperor didn’t answer.
A shaken but poker-faced President said, “Surrender is not an option. When will the collision occur?”
“In one hundred years, three months, two weeks, and five days. You can understand the need for us to occupy your planet very soon when you consider the logistical nightmare I’m faced with.”
“Instead of invading us, which would cause extensive bloodshed on both sides, let’s compromise.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Suppose we trade planets?” asked Kirk. “Relocate all your subjects to Earth, and we’ll move our entire population to your planet.”
“You’d do that, knowing that my planet will be destroyed?”
“Yes. We’d have to borrow lots of your flying saucers to transport our people to your planet. To sweeten the deal, I’ll ensure that every building on Earth is left intact when we leave. That way, your subjects could move right in when they arrive. Think of the savings you’ll realize by avoiding construction costs. What do you have to lose? You’ll gain Earth, a planet that has a bright future, while we’ll face a dismal future and certain annihilation.”
“It’s a deal,” said the Emperor.
The Emperor became a hero to his subjects for obtaining such a fabulous concession from Earth. They snickered, calling Earthlings weak and stupid for giving up their beautiful planet without a fight.
In contrast, Kirk’s popularity plummeted 95%. Many around the globe said he’d made a lousy deal. Several attempts were made on his life.
Kirk appeared on TV to assure the world’s masses. “It’s not all that bad. True, we'll have to live in caves formerly occupied by Martians. That will take a bit of adjustment, considering their stench. And we'll have a hundred years to find a way to save our new home planet from destruction. With our intelligence and ingenuity, I’m sure we’ll find a way and live happily ever after.”
During the rest of 2011 and most of 2012, both planets undertook the massive project of swapping their entire populations.
On December 20, 2012, ceremonies were held on Mars and Earth to celebrate the successful end of the project.
The next day, President Kirk spoke on TV to all Earthlings now living on Mars.
“I’d like to thank all of you for your cooperation. The tremendously complex relocation project has been completed on schedule, on budget, and without casualties. On behalf of the Relocated Amalgamated Nations, I’d like to offer my profound thanks to the Emperor for his cooperation and for lending us thousands of flying saucers to transport our population to Mars. The leaders of the Relocated Amalgamated Nations and I wish to invite you to participate in a ceremony tonight, when we will salute our former planet for the last time. If you’ll participate in this historical event, please leave your caves at 7:45 and face in the direction of Earth. At exactly 8:00 PM, we’ll wave goodbye. Afterward, all government agencies will begin brainstorming sessions to figure out how we can save our new planet from destruction.”
At 7:45, Earthlings all across Mars left their caves to assemble for the ceremony.
A few minutes before 8:00, Kirk transmitted a final message to the Emperor, thanking him for avoiding war and conducting a peaceful swap. The last line of Kirk’s message said, “Your Highness, on this the twenty-first day of December, in the year 2012, I wonder if you ever heard of the Mayans and their prophecy about this very day?”
“Who were the Mayans?” asked the Emperor, as Earthlings waved goodbye to Earth.
Suddenly, Earth exploded with a tremendous roar that was heard throughout the entire Solar System.
Raising his middle finger in a gesture of defiance, Kirk said, “Well, as you just found out, the Mayans were a helluva lot smarter than you and your freakin’ astronomers.”
- - -
Michael A. Kechula’s fiction has been published by 128 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s authored 3 books: "A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales,” “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
By Michael A. Kechula
In January, 2011, ten thousand UFO sightings were reported in the United States. The same month, over twenty thousand Americans reported they’d been abducted by Martians. After several days of captivity, all were returned to Earth. When questioned by the FBI, they claimed they were examined by strange looking creatures, then shown to the Emperor of Mars. They said the Emperor spoke to them through translating machines. The Emperor boasted he would soon conquer Earth.
Considering the seriousness of the abductees’ statements, the government insisted they take lie detector tests. Results showed all had spoken the truth. Consequently, President Kirk was convinced that Martians would soon invade Earth.
During an emergency cabinet meeting, Kirk said, "I’m preparing a message for transmission to Mars to arrange a meeting with the Emperor. We’ve must find a way to prevent interplanetary war.”
Kirk conferred with leaders of the Amalgamated Nations. All agreed with his conclusion and the content of the message he wanted to transmit to the Emperor. They selected Kirk to represent the interests of every nation on Earth.
Two hours after Kirk’s message was transmitted to Mars, he received a reply. The Emperor agreed to meet him in Roswell, New Mexico, site of the first Martian landing in America.
They met on the field where a Martian flying saucer crashed in 1947, killing its occupants. After an Army band played the national anthems of both planets, the Emperor laid a wreath to honor the aliens who died on that very spot.
“Let’s get down to business,” Kirk said. “I understand you intend to invade our planet. Why would you do such a thing?”
“I have no choice,” said the Emperor. “My astronomers discovered a comet twice the size of the Sun heading toward my planet. It will strike us and destroy everything. I must relocate all my subjects. Our surveys indicate that your planet would be best for us. I suggest you surrender now.”
“And if we do, what will happen to the billions that inhabit this planet?”
The Emperor didn’t answer.
A shaken but poker-faced President said, “Surrender is not an option. When will the collision occur?”
“In one hundred years, three months, two weeks, and five days. You can understand the need for us to occupy your planet very soon when you consider the logistical nightmare I’m faced with.”
“Instead of invading us, which would cause extensive bloodshed on both sides, let’s compromise.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Suppose we trade planets?” asked Kirk. “Relocate all your subjects to Earth, and we’ll move our entire population to your planet.”
“You’d do that, knowing that my planet will be destroyed?”
“Yes. We’d have to borrow lots of your flying saucers to transport our people to your planet. To sweeten the deal, I’ll ensure that every building on Earth is left intact when we leave. That way, your subjects could move right in when they arrive. Think of the savings you’ll realize by avoiding construction costs. What do you have to lose? You’ll gain Earth, a planet that has a bright future, while we’ll face a dismal future and certain annihilation.”
“It’s a deal,” said the Emperor.
The Emperor became a hero to his subjects for obtaining such a fabulous concession from Earth. They snickered, calling Earthlings weak and stupid for giving up their beautiful planet without a fight.
In contrast, Kirk’s popularity plummeted 95%. Many around the globe said he’d made a lousy deal. Several attempts were made on his life.
Kirk appeared on TV to assure the world’s masses. “It’s not all that bad. True, we'll have to live in caves formerly occupied by Martians. That will take a bit of adjustment, considering their stench. And we'll have a hundred years to find a way to save our new home planet from destruction. With our intelligence and ingenuity, I’m sure we’ll find a way and live happily ever after.”
During the rest of 2011 and most of 2012, both planets undertook the massive project of swapping their entire populations.
On December 20, 2012, ceremonies were held on Mars and Earth to celebrate the successful end of the project.
The next day, President Kirk spoke on TV to all Earthlings now living on Mars.
“I’d like to thank all of you for your cooperation. The tremendously complex relocation project has been completed on schedule, on budget, and without casualties. On behalf of the Relocated Amalgamated Nations, I’d like to offer my profound thanks to the Emperor for his cooperation and for lending us thousands of flying saucers to transport our population to Mars. The leaders of the Relocated Amalgamated Nations and I wish to invite you to participate in a ceremony tonight, when we will salute our former planet for the last time. If you’ll participate in this historical event, please leave your caves at 7:45 and face in the direction of Earth. At exactly 8:00 PM, we’ll wave goodbye. Afterward, all government agencies will begin brainstorming sessions to figure out how we can save our new planet from destruction.”
At 7:45, Earthlings all across Mars left their caves to assemble for the ceremony.
A few minutes before 8:00, Kirk transmitted a final message to the Emperor, thanking him for avoiding war and conducting a peaceful swap. The last line of Kirk’s message said, “Your Highness, on this the twenty-first day of December, in the year 2012, I wonder if you ever heard of the Mayans and their prophecy about this very day?”
“Who were the Mayans?” asked the Emperor, as Earthlings waved goodbye to Earth.
Suddenly, Earth exploded with a tremendous roar that was heard throughout the entire Solar System.
Raising his middle finger in a gesture of defiance, Kirk said, “Well, as you just found out, the Mayans were a helluva lot smarter than you and your freakin’ astronomers.”
- - -
Michael A. Kechula’s fiction has been published by 128 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s authored 3 books: "A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales,” “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
QWERTY
By Michael A. Kechula
Harry was surprised when a highway patrol car with flashing lights moved directly behind him.
“What’s the problem, Officer?”
“Your license plate. How come it says QWERTY?”
“I’m a writer. I thought it was cool to use the first six letters of a keyboard.”
“How did you decide to use those characters? Did you meditate, or cry out to the gods for inspiration?”
“Nah. It came to me in a dream.”
“What else was in the dream?” the cop asked.
“Look, it’s bad enough you stopped me for no valid reason in the middle of the Nevada desert, but I don’t see why I have to tell you my dreams.”
The cop pulled his pistol. “I’ll ask you one more time—what else was in the dream?”
“Don’t shoot! I dreamed a beautiful woman in white appeared and said it was extremely important for me to get a license plate that said QWERTY. Then she was gone. Being a writer, I thought it was a neat idea. So, I ordered this plate.”
The cop holstered his gun, fell on his knees, and cried out, “QWERTY, QWERTY, QWERTY.” After repeating the word thirteen times, he ran to his car and spoke excitedly into his radio handset.
The cop was beaming when he returned to Harry’s car. “Oh Great Prophet, your humble servants will be here in five minutes. What can do to make you comfortable until they arrive?”
Harry was dumbfounded. Before he answered, the cop fell on his knees and with outstretched arms chanted, “QWERTY,” thirteen more times.
A Cadillac stretch limo arrived. Out jumped six gorgeous women. They surrounded Harry’s car, fell on their knees, and chanted the same word.
“Please come with us in our humble limo,” said the cop. “The people await you with great eagerness.”
“I don’t understand,” Harry said. “But I’ll go, have some lunch, and then maybe you guys can bring me back here so I can be on my way. I was hoping to be in California by tonight.”
When they got into the limo, the cop said, “QWERTY is the sacred word we’ve been waiting to see on a license plate for generations. The Holy Scroll says, ‘He will come across the vast desert in a four-wheeled chariot. It will bear a plate upon which will be inscribed the most sacred word QWERTY. Honor him, for he is a Great Prophet. Give him all, for he comes unawares, sent by the Supreme Goddess. She will appear to him in a dream. He will obey her holy words.’”
“And now you’ve come,” said a stunning blonde, who bowed while reverently touching Harry’s sleeve.
“You sure you ain’t making a mistake?” Harry asked as the limo rolled into the small town crowded with cheering, bowing people. When he saw all the flowers they were showering on the limo, he stopped asking questions and waved.
The mayor welcomed Harry with a deep bow. “Oh, Great Prophet, we are ready to immolate ourselves as the Holy Scroll directs, to gain our eternal reward and free the souls of our ancestors. Tonight, we will hold the ceremony.”
“Look,” Harry said. “I’m just passing through. I’m almost broke. I lost my job. I hear they’re hiring in Silicon Valley. If you guys want, maybe you can pass a hat around to help me pay for some gas.”
“Listen how humbly he denies his exalted stature,” said the mayor. “Just as the Holy Scrolls predicted. Chapter seven, verse ten says, ‘He will deny all and pretend to be a man of little consequence. He will be on a journey to seek employment it in the Vale of the Silicones.”
Everyone fell to their knees and chanted, “QWERTY,” thirteen times.
Harry pondered the situation and its implications. He’d tried to dissuade the mayor. But the guy wouldn’t listen. No sense trying again.
Harry realized he was dealing with a deeply ingrained belief system. Who was he to turn their world upside down, and try to dissuade them? He decided to go along with their wishes, but escape at the first opportunity.
His plan changed when informed that HE was the one appointed by the Scrolls to light the funeral pyres for the town’s entire population. As they cooked, he was to read the sacred verses that guaranteed their quick entrance to the Heavenly Gardens in the City of Platinum.
Seeing no chance of escaping, Harry figured if they wanted to burn, who was he to act against their religious beliefs? No doubt, they had cash, jewelry, SUVs, homes. After their demise, everything in the town would be intact. With everybody gone, he could become the new owner of the town’s wealth. He could retire immediately, and live like a sultan. All he had to do was light a match. One lousy match.
On the other hand, kids were involved. He wondered if it were murder to accede to the ardent wishes of religious zealots? Weren’t their beliefs protected by the Constitution? If he resisted too strongly, would they go crazy, turn on him, and torch him for not living up to their religious expectations?
He advised the mayor that he was prepared to fulfill his sacred obligations. He asked if documents could be prepared immediately to will every object in the entire town to him.
“The documents already exist,” said the mayor. “My secretary is adding your name at this very moment.”
City fathers organized a gigantic funeral procession. All 2,341 residents assembled within a gigantic gasoline soaked tent, surrounded by mountains of wood pilings.
Inserting earplugs, Harry lit the All Hallowed Match. As the fire roared, he read aloud the silly jingles somebody’d called sacred texts.
Afterward, he attached his QWERTY license plate to the late mayor’s Mercedes convertible, and took inventory.
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula’s fiction has been published by 127 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s authored 3 books: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales,” “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
By Michael A. Kechula
Harry was surprised when a highway patrol car with flashing lights moved directly behind him.
“What’s the problem, Officer?”
“Your license plate. How come it says QWERTY?”
“I’m a writer. I thought it was cool to use the first six letters of a keyboard.”
“How did you decide to use those characters? Did you meditate, or cry out to the gods for inspiration?”
“Nah. It came to me in a dream.”
“What else was in the dream?” the cop asked.
“Look, it’s bad enough you stopped me for no valid reason in the middle of the Nevada desert, but I don’t see why I have to tell you my dreams.”
The cop pulled his pistol. “I’ll ask you one more time—what else was in the dream?”
“Don’t shoot! I dreamed a beautiful woman in white appeared and said it was extremely important for me to get a license plate that said QWERTY. Then she was gone. Being a writer, I thought it was a neat idea. So, I ordered this plate.”
The cop holstered his gun, fell on his knees, and cried out, “QWERTY, QWERTY, QWERTY.” After repeating the word thirteen times, he ran to his car and spoke excitedly into his radio handset.
The cop was beaming when he returned to Harry’s car. “Oh Great Prophet, your humble servants will be here in five minutes. What can do to make you comfortable until they arrive?”
Harry was dumbfounded. Before he answered, the cop fell on his knees and with outstretched arms chanted, “QWERTY,” thirteen more times.
A Cadillac stretch limo arrived. Out jumped six gorgeous women. They surrounded Harry’s car, fell on their knees, and chanted the same word.
“Please come with us in our humble limo,” said the cop. “The people await you with great eagerness.”
“I don’t understand,” Harry said. “But I’ll go, have some lunch, and then maybe you guys can bring me back here so I can be on my way. I was hoping to be in California by tonight.”
When they got into the limo, the cop said, “QWERTY is the sacred word we’ve been waiting to see on a license plate for generations. The Holy Scroll says, ‘He will come across the vast desert in a four-wheeled chariot. It will bear a plate upon which will be inscribed the most sacred word QWERTY. Honor him, for he is a Great Prophet. Give him all, for he comes unawares, sent by the Supreme Goddess. She will appear to him in a dream. He will obey her holy words.’”
“And now you’ve come,” said a stunning blonde, who bowed while reverently touching Harry’s sleeve.
“You sure you ain’t making a mistake?” Harry asked as the limo rolled into the small town crowded with cheering, bowing people. When he saw all the flowers they were showering on the limo, he stopped asking questions and waved.
The mayor welcomed Harry with a deep bow. “Oh, Great Prophet, we are ready to immolate ourselves as the Holy Scroll directs, to gain our eternal reward and free the souls of our ancestors. Tonight, we will hold the ceremony.”
“Look,” Harry said. “I’m just passing through. I’m almost broke. I lost my job. I hear they’re hiring in Silicon Valley. If you guys want, maybe you can pass a hat around to help me pay for some gas.”
“Listen how humbly he denies his exalted stature,” said the mayor. “Just as the Holy Scrolls predicted. Chapter seven, verse ten says, ‘He will deny all and pretend to be a man of little consequence. He will be on a journey to seek employment it in the Vale of the Silicones.”
Everyone fell to their knees and chanted, “QWERTY,” thirteen times.
Harry pondered the situation and its implications. He’d tried to dissuade the mayor. But the guy wouldn’t listen. No sense trying again.
Harry realized he was dealing with a deeply ingrained belief system. Who was he to turn their world upside down, and try to dissuade them? He decided to go along with their wishes, but escape at the first opportunity.
His plan changed when informed that HE was the one appointed by the Scrolls to light the funeral pyres for the town’s entire population. As they cooked, he was to read the sacred verses that guaranteed their quick entrance to the Heavenly Gardens in the City of Platinum.
Seeing no chance of escaping, Harry figured if they wanted to burn, who was he to act against their religious beliefs? No doubt, they had cash, jewelry, SUVs, homes. After their demise, everything in the town would be intact. With everybody gone, he could become the new owner of the town’s wealth. He could retire immediately, and live like a sultan. All he had to do was light a match. One lousy match.
On the other hand, kids were involved. He wondered if it were murder to accede to the ardent wishes of religious zealots? Weren’t their beliefs protected by the Constitution? If he resisted too strongly, would they go crazy, turn on him, and torch him for not living up to their religious expectations?
He advised the mayor that he was prepared to fulfill his sacred obligations. He asked if documents could be prepared immediately to will every object in the entire town to him.
“The documents already exist,” said the mayor. “My secretary is adding your name at this very moment.”
City fathers organized a gigantic funeral procession. All 2,341 residents assembled within a gigantic gasoline soaked tent, surrounded by mountains of wood pilings.
Inserting earplugs, Harry lit the All Hallowed Match. As the fire roared, he read aloud the silly jingles somebody’d called sacred texts.
Afterward, he attached his QWERTY license plate to the late mayor’s Mercedes convertible, and took inventory.
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula’s fiction has been published by 127 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s authored 3 books: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales,” “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION
Michael A. Kechula
When Charlie left the bakery with a bag full of donuts, he was abducted by aliens. The next thing he knew, he was sitting in a chair in their spacecraft with the donuts in his lap. Facing him were a dozen green Martians. All were holding clipboards and taking notes.
“Welcome aboard,” said the tallest one. “My name is Glarp. We won’t keep you long. We just want to remove one of your eyes for analysis. Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing. What’s that in your lap?”
“A bag of donuts.”
“What’s a donut?”
“Something good to eat.”
Glarp nudged the greenie next to him. “Take one and taste it. If it’s really good, we’ll reverse engineer it, duplicate it, and open donut shops back home.”
As the Martian approached, Charlie extended a glazed cinnamon twist. When the alien took a bite, he screamed, and fell to the floor convulsing. In seconds, he disintegrated into a pile of dust.
Charlie grabbed another cinnamon twist from the bag and pointed it at the Martians. “OK, you bums. Put your hands up. This bag’s full of weapons of mass destruction. The one I’m holding is powerful enough to blow this spaceship to smithereens. If you don’t return me to Earth immediately, I’ll set it off.”
Trembling, the Martians did as Charlie commanded.
“Where the hell have you been for the last three hours?” asked his wife. “I’ve been dying for a donut.”
When he tried to explain, she called him an idiot.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “I’ve made a remarkable discovery. Donuts are more than what they seem. In fact, they can be used as very effective weapons against Martians. Do you realize with a cinnamon twist, we may be able to end alien abductions forever? I’m gonna call Homeland Security right now and tell them.”
The agent who answered the phone called Charlie an jerk and hung up.
Charlie wrote to the President, Congress, and heads of the armed forces. Nobody bothered to respond.
When he called radio talk shows, the hosts derided him and terminated his call before he could explain how donuts could be used to kill Martians and defend the country against invasion.
The only way I’ll be able to convince anybody is if I run for Congress, he mumbled. When I’m elected, I’ll have some clout. And when they interview me on CNN and Fox News, I’ll be able to tell everybody about the fantastic power of donuts.
Charlie got elected to Congress and managed to wrangle an appointment to the Armed Forces Committee. During a secret hearing about UFOs and what the Air Force was doing to defend the country against alien intrusions, he finally got a chance to tell a general how cinnamon twists affected Martians.
During a break in the hearings, he approached the general in charge of US Air Defense Forces and explained his ideas on defending the nation against Martians.
“You want me to remove one of the four air-to-air missiles on our UFO-chasing fighter planes and replace it with a donut?” asked the incredulous general.
“Right. I have reason to believe that all UFOs come from Mars. I have reliable information about a situation where an abductee killed a Martian with a glazed cinnamon twist. Not only that, the guy got away by threatening to blow up their spacecraft with a cinnamon twist. I’m sure by now the word got around Mars, and every UFO pilot and crew know about this. So, I figure if we shoot cinnamon twists at UFOs, instead of missiles, we’ll scare them off for good. I suggest we run a test.”
The general agreed. A month later, two Air Defense fighter planes were scrambled to intercept a UFO over Phoenix. Instead of shooting missiles to scare it away, each pilot fired an oversized cinnamon twist. The pilots were amazed when the UFO suddenly changed direction and hightailed it into outer space at warp speed. After that incident, no UFOs were ever seen again over Phoenix.
The same thing happened when UFOs were spotted over Chicago and New York. Consequently, the President issued an executive order stating that all Air Force attack planes guarding against UFO intrusions were to be armed with four oversized, glazed, cinnamon twists.
Nevertheless, some UFO’s managed to get through the global radar shield undetected, and abducted dozens of Earthlings. When Congressman Charlie learned this, he spoke of his abduction experience during a congressional hearing. Afterward, he sponsored a bill to provide every citizen in the United States with a fresh cinnamon twist, every day for life. It passed unanimously.
Before long, all citizens wore cinnamon twists around their necks, 24/7. As a result, alien abductions ceased completely.
Now, Earthlings can once again enjoy munching cinnamon twists, instead of wearing them in self defense.
- - -
Michael A. Kechula’s fiction has won first place in 10 contests and placed in 7 others. His stories have been published by 127 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s authored 2 books: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
Michael A. Kechula
When Charlie left the bakery with a bag full of donuts, he was abducted by aliens. The next thing he knew, he was sitting in a chair in their spacecraft with the donuts in his lap. Facing him were a dozen green Martians. All were holding clipboards and taking notes.
“Welcome aboard,” said the tallest one. “My name is Glarp. We won’t keep you long. We just want to remove one of your eyes for analysis. Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing. What’s that in your lap?”
“A bag of donuts.”
“What’s a donut?”
“Something good to eat.”
Glarp nudged the greenie next to him. “Take one and taste it. If it’s really good, we’ll reverse engineer it, duplicate it, and open donut shops back home.”
As the Martian approached, Charlie extended a glazed cinnamon twist. When the alien took a bite, he screamed, and fell to the floor convulsing. In seconds, he disintegrated into a pile of dust.
Charlie grabbed another cinnamon twist from the bag and pointed it at the Martians. “OK, you bums. Put your hands up. This bag’s full of weapons of mass destruction. The one I’m holding is powerful enough to blow this spaceship to smithereens. If you don’t return me to Earth immediately, I’ll set it off.”
Trembling, the Martians did as Charlie commanded.
“Where the hell have you been for the last three hours?” asked his wife. “I’ve been dying for a donut.”
When he tried to explain, she called him an idiot.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “I’ve made a remarkable discovery. Donuts are more than what they seem. In fact, they can be used as very effective weapons against Martians. Do you realize with a cinnamon twist, we may be able to end alien abductions forever? I’m gonna call Homeland Security right now and tell them.”
The agent who answered the phone called Charlie an jerk and hung up.
Charlie wrote to the President, Congress, and heads of the armed forces. Nobody bothered to respond.
When he called radio talk shows, the hosts derided him and terminated his call before he could explain how donuts could be used to kill Martians and defend the country against invasion.
The only way I’ll be able to convince anybody is if I run for Congress, he mumbled. When I’m elected, I’ll have some clout. And when they interview me on CNN and Fox News, I’ll be able to tell everybody about the fantastic power of donuts.
Charlie got elected to Congress and managed to wrangle an appointment to the Armed Forces Committee. During a secret hearing about UFOs and what the Air Force was doing to defend the country against alien intrusions, he finally got a chance to tell a general how cinnamon twists affected Martians.
During a break in the hearings, he approached the general in charge of US Air Defense Forces and explained his ideas on defending the nation against Martians.
“You want me to remove one of the four air-to-air missiles on our UFO-chasing fighter planes and replace it with a donut?” asked the incredulous general.
“Right. I have reason to believe that all UFOs come from Mars. I have reliable information about a situation where an abductee killed a Martian with a glazed cinnamon twist. Not only that, the guy got away by threatening to blow up their spacecraft with a cinnamon twist. I’m sure by now the word got around Mars, and every UFO pilot and crew know about this. So, I figure if we shoot cinnamon twists at UFOs, instead of missiles, we’ll scare them off for good. I suggest we run a test.”
The general agreed. A month later, two Air Defense fighter planes were scrambled to intercept a UFO over Phoenix. Instead of shooting missiles to scare it away, each pilot fired an oversized cinnamon twist. The pilots were amazed when the UFO suddenly changed direction and hightailed it into outer space at warp speed. After that incident, no UFOs were ever seen again over Phoenix.
The same thing happened when UFOs were spotted over Chicago and New York. Consequently, the President issued an executive order stating that all Air Force attack planes guarding against UFO intrusions were to be armed with four oversized, glazed, cinnamon twists.
Nevertheless, some UFO’s managed to get through the global radar shield undetected, and abducted dozens of Earthlings. When Congressman Charlie learned this, he spoke of his abduction experience during a congressional hearing. Afterward, he sponsored a bill to provide every citizen in the United States with a fresh cinnamon twist, every day for life. It passed unanimously.
Before long, all citizens wore cinnamon twists around their necks, 24/7. As a result, alien abductions ceased completely.
Now, Earthlings can once again enjoy munching cinnamon twists, instead of wearing them in self defense.
- - -
Michael A. Kechula’s fiction has won first place in 10 contests and placed in 7 others. His stories have been published by 127 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He’s authored 2 books: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
GENOCIDAL BASTARDS
Michael A. Kechula
World War Nine broke out while I was inspecting the Doomsday Shelter twenty miles below Area 51. I was incommunicado for three days. During that time, Martians staged a sneak attack, waged nuclear war, won, and departed with the spoils.
When I emerged from the shelter, I checked nearby Las Vegas. Horrors! Beside me, the only other survivors were cockroaches.
Fortunately, the Doomsday Shelter had plentiful supplies, so I made that my home. Except for human companionship, life was normal. Mornings, I exercised in the gym built for 500,000 people. Afternoons, I browsed the Shelter’s vast library of a billion volumes. Time passed quickly. But after six months, I found myself extremely lonely.
Then I discovered hundreds of books containing photographs of every female cockroach in America. The book covers said they were printed by Royal Press, publishers to His Royal Highness, The King of North American Cockroaches. The printer’s address was a few blocks from Caesar’s Palace Casino in Las Vegas.
Waving a white flag, I approached the place. Suddenly, I was surrounded by very nasty looking, heavily armed cockroaches. “I come in peace,” I said. “I wish to see your King.”
Recognizing that I was human, they put away their weapons, and shook my hand. Then they told me to lie on the ground. When I did, untold numbers lifted me and carried me into the royal chamber in the basement of Caesar’s Palace.
“Your Highness,” I said, as they lowered me at the foot of the King’s throne, “I’m delighted to see you. And I’m pleased that you and so many of your subjects survived.”
“We all survived. Your scientists were right.”
“In what way, Your Highness?”
“They predicted that the only survivors of thermonuclear war would be cockroaches. So, how did you manage to stay alive, seeing that you aren’t one of us?”
“I was twenty miles under the ground inspecting the Doomsday Shelter. When I came to the surface, I saw bodies and destroyed buildings everywhere. When I saw some of your kind scurrying around, I knew there were other survivors.”
“So why are you here?” he asked.
“I saw your books in the Shelter’s library.”
“Ah yes. I had them published to show casino owners how beautiful my female subjects were. I sent copies to every casino in town, hoping they’d hire some as show girls.”
“I can’t imagine why I never saw any on stage at the casinos,” I said. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. I have an idea that may serve our mutual interests.”
We spoke for hours. Afterward, he ordered a beauty contest in which only the most stunning of his subjects would participate.
The contest was held in Las Vegas in what was left of Caesar’s Palace. It rivaled in grandeur any Miss America Contest I’d ever seen. Seeing hundreds of gorgeous, female cockroaches posing in swimsuits was something to behold.
I married the winner with the King's blessing.
Since then, we’ve mated hourly to repopulate Earth. The cross-species pollination is working. When we have sufficient offspring, I’ll build a humongous army, nuclear weapons, and rocket ships. Then we’ll get revenge.
Beware, you genocidal Martian bastards! The cocka-humans are coming!
- - -
Michael A. Kechula's flash fiction has been published by 127 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He's authored two collections of flash fiction tales: "A Full Deck of Zombies - 61 Speculative Fiction Tales" and "The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales."
Michael A. Kechula
World War Nine broke out while I was inspecting the Doomsday Shelter twenty miles below Area 51. I was incommunicado for three days. During that time, Martians staged a sneak attack, waged nuclear war, won, and departed with the spoils.
When I emerged from the shelter, I checked nearby Las Vegas. Horrors! Beside me, the only other survivors were cockroaches.
Fortunately, the Doomsday Shelter had plentiful supplies, so I made that my home. Except for human companionship, life was normal. Mornings, I exercised in the gym built for 500,000 people. Afternoons, I browsed the Shelter’s vast library of a billion volumes. Time passed quickly. But after six months, I found myself extremely lonely.
Then I discovered hundreds of books containing photographs of every female cockroach in America. The book covers said they were printed by Royal Press, publishers to His Royal Highness, The King of North American Cockroaches. The printer’s address was a few blocks from Caesar’s Palace Casino in Las Vegas.
Waving a white flag, I approached the place. Suddenly, I was surrounded by very nasty looking, heavily armed cockroaches. “I come in peace,” I said. “I wish to see your King.”
Recognizing that I was human, they put away their weapons, and shook my hand. Then they told me to lie on the ground. When I did, untold numbers lifted me and carried me into the royal chamber in the basement of Caesar’s Palace.
“Your Highness,” I said, as they lowered me at the foot of the King’s throne, “I’m delighted to see you. And I’m pleased that you and so many of your subjects survived.”
“We all survived. Your scientists were right.”
“In what way, Your Highness?”
“They predicted that the only survivors of thermonuclear war would be cockroaches. So, how did you manage to stay alive, seeing that you aren’t one of us?”
“I was twenty miles under the ground inspecting the Doomsday Shelter. When I came to the surface, I saw bodies and destroyed buildings everywhere. When I saw some of your kind scurrying around, I knew there were other survivors.”
“So why are you here?” he asked.
“I saw your books in the Shelter’s library.”
“Ah yes. I had them published to show casino owners how beautiful my female subjects were. I sent copies to every casino in town, hoping they’d hire some as show girls.”
“I can’t imagine why I never saw any on stage at the casinos,” I said. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. I have an idea that may serve our mutual interests.”
We spoke for hours. Afterward, he ordered a beauty contest in which only the most stunning of his subjects would participate.
The contest was held in Las Vegas in what was left of Caesar’s Palace. It rivaled in grandeur any Miss America Contest I’d ever seen. Seeing hundreds of gorgeous, female cockroaches posing in swimsuits was something to behold.
I married the winner with the King's blessing.
Since then, we’ve mated hourly to repopulate Earth. The cross-species pollination is working. When we have sufficient offspring, I’ll build a humongous army, nuclear weapons, and rocket ships. Then we’ll get revenge.
Beware, you genocidal Martian bastards! The cocka-humans are coming!
- - -
Michael A. Kechula's flash fiction has been published by 127 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He's authored two collections of flash fiction tales: "A Full Deck of Zombies - 61 Speculative Fiction Tales" and "The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales."
TOAST AND COFFEE
By Michael A. Kechula
Joe was munching toast in a diner when the clock struck midnight. This was the third diner he’d visited since arriving in Jersey City. If this were the right one, a woman with horrible body odor would show up and take the stool next to his.
As he sipped coffee, a reeking woman flopped onto the seat next to him. Her stench was so putrid, he almost vomited.
The woman elbowed him so hard in the ribs, his cup went flying. Exactly as predicted in the manual he received when attending a secret workshop.
“What’s your problem lady?” Joe said, using words memorized from the manual.
“My problem?” she hollered. “What’s yours, you freakin’ jerk!”
Her words had been predicted verbatim by the manual. So were those of the owner when he said, “Hey! I don’t want no hassles here. If you can’t settle down, get the hell outta my diner.”
“Tell him, not me,” the washed out, baggy-eyed woman said. “He was supposed to meet me at Louie’s Lounge last night. The bastard never showed up for our date.”
“I don’t know this woman,” Joe said. “I don’t date anybody. I’m a priest.”
“He’s a damn liar,” the woman shouted. “I’m his girlfriend. And he sure as hell ain’t no priest.”
“You don’t look like no priest,” the owner said on cue. “Are you absolutely sure you are one? Or are you just imagining things?”
Joe removed a bottle of holy water, crucifix, and book of psalms from his jacket and put them on the counter. “Who else but a priest would have stuff like this in his pocket?” he asked.
Everyone in the diner sneered, then removed the same things from their pockets and handbags and laid them on tables. All stared menacingly at Joe, waiting for his next move.
Reaching inside his jacket, Joe removed a purple stole that Roman Catholic priests wore when conducting religious rituals.
Everyone else in the diner took out a purple stole that looked exactly like Joe’s.
“OK,” Joe said. “I see you wanna play games. That’s fine with me.”
“Do you really have the guts to put that stole on?” asked a customer. “Did your bosses in Rome ever tell you what happens to those who don’t truly believe? You look very nervous to me. Are you sure you’re up to the task? Listen...if you put that thing back in your pocket and leave right now, we’ll all make believe you never came here. That is, if you never go to another diner again. You’re awfully young to be hanging around diners. Too young to be wasting your time here. Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’ll toss in a bonus. Besides sparing your life, if you leave right now, the most exquisite woman in the universe will be out front within sixty seconds. She’ll give you the time of your life, a hundred times over. You’ll bless the day you slipped off her undies. So, what do you say?”
Placing the stole around his neck Joe said aloud in Latin, “Out of the depths have I cried to Thee, oh Lord.”
Instantly, everyone except Joe was frozen in place.
Starting with the owner, Joe went to every entity and splashed it with holy water. Each time a drop struck one, it disappeared with a loud pop. He saved the smelly woman who’d elbowed him for last. Checking her scalp as if searching for lice, he found two hard nubs that would soon become six-inch horns.
“Demon in training,” he muttered in Latin. “And this one’s close to getting her diploma.”
When he threw holy water in her face, she too disappeared with a pop.
Outside the diner, he swigged blessed water to decontaminate the toast and coffee he’d ingested in the unholy place. Forgetting to do so would have resulted in a fatal stomach disorder.
Removing a portable flame thrower from his car, Joe muttered prayers of exorcism and torched the diner.
“One down,” he muttered, as he drove away.
The following night, he drove to Newark to check out the city’s six diners.
Ten minutes before midnight, he took a counter seat in a diner. Ordering plain toast and coffee, he waited for the next horrible-smelling demon to take a stool and elbow him in the ribs.
Nobody showed up.
Joe wondered how long it would take to find the remaining sixty-one unnamed diners, declared by the Vatican as the most demonically possessed eateries in the United States.
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula's flash fiction has been published by 126 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He's authored two collections of flash fiction tales: "A Full Deck of Zombies - 61 Speculative Fiction Tales" and "The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales."
By Michael A. Kechula
Joe was munching toast in a diner when the clock struck midnight. This was the third diner he’d visited since arriving in Jersey City. If this were the right one, a woman with horrible body odor would show up and take the stool next to his.
As he sipped coffee, a reeking woman flopped onto the seat next to him. Her stench was so putrid, he almost vomited.
The woman elbowed him so hard in the ribs, his cup went flying. Exactly as predicted in the manual he received when attending a secret workshop.
“What’s your problem lady?” Joe said, using words memorized from the manual.
“My problem?” she hollered. “What’s yours, you freakin’ jerk!”
Her words had been predicted verbatim by the manual. So were those of the owner when he said, “Hey! I don’t want no hassles here. If you can’t settle down, get the hell outta my diner.”
“Tell him, not me,” the washed out, baggy-eyed woman said. “He was supposed to meet me at Louie’s Lounge last night. The bastard never showed up for our date.”
“I don’t know this woman,” Joe said. “I don’t date anybody. I’m a priest.”
“He’s a damn liar,” the woman shouted. “I’m his girlfriend. And he sure as hell ain’t no priest.”
“You don’t look like no priest,” the owner said on cue. “Are you absolutely sure you are one? Or are you just imagining things?”
Joe removed a bottle of holy water, crucifix, and book of psalms from his jacket and put them on the counter. “Who else but a priest would have stuff like this in his pocket?” he asked.
Everyone in the diner sneered, then removed the same things from their pockets and handbags and laid them on tables. All stared menacingly at Joe, waiting for his next move.
Reaching inside his jacket, Joe removed a purple stole that Roman Catholic priests wore when conducting religious rituals.
Everyone else in the diner took out a purple stole that looked exactly like Joe’s.
“OK,” Joe said. “I see you wanna play games. That’s fine with me.”
“Do you really have the guts to put that stole on?” asked a customer. “Did your bosses in Rome ever tell you what happens to those who don’t truly believe? You look very nervous to me. Are you sure you’re up to the task? Listen...if you put that thing back in your pocket and leave right now, we’ll all make believe you never came here. That is, if you never go to another diner again. You’re awfully young to be hanging around diners. Too young to be wasting your time here. Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’ll toss in a bonus. Besides sparing your life, if you leave right now, the most exquisite woman in the universe will be out front within sixty seconds. She’ll give you the time of your life, a hundred times over. You’ll bless the day you slipped off her undies. So, what do you say?”
Placing the stole around his neck Joe said aloud in Latin, “Out of the depths have I cried to Thee, oh Lord.”
Instantly, everyone except Joe was frozen in place.
Starting with the owner, Joe went to every entity and splashed it with holy water. Each time a drop struck one, it disappeared with a loud pop. He saved the smelly woman who’d elbowed him for last. Checking her scalp as if searching for lice, he found two hard nubs that would soon become six-inch horns.
“Demon in training,” he muttered in Latin. “And this one’s close to getting her diploma.”
When he threw holy water in her face, she too disappeared with a pop.
Outside the diner, he swigged blessed water to decontaminate the toast and coffee he’d ingested in the unholy place. Forgetting to do so would have resulted in a fatal stomach disorder.
Removing a portable flame thrower from his car, Joe muttered prayers of exorcism and torched the diner.
“One down,” he muttered, as he drove away.
The following night, he drove to Newark to check out the city’s six diners.
Ten minutes before midnight, he took a counter seat in a diner. Ordering plain toast and coffee, he waited for the next horrible-smelling demon to take a stool and elbow him in the ribs.
Nobody showed up.
Joe wondered how long it would take to find the remaining sixty-one unnamed diners, declared by the Vatican as the most demonically possessed eateries in the United States.
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula's flash fiction has been published by 126 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He's authored two collections of flash fiction tales: "A Full Deck of Zombies - 61 Speculative Fiction Tales" and "The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales."
CON ARTIST
Michael A. Kechula
Frank was whale watching off the coast of Santa Buffoona when he heard a whale call, “Hey, Mister, what’s your name?”
“Frank,” he said, wondering if he were hallucinating.
“Well, Frank, could you do me a big favor?”
“Depends on what it is,” he said, wondering if the whale was gonna hit him up for a few bucks.
“It’s not complicated. I’m the King of the Whales. I’m facing open rebellion. Some of my subjects are fed up with their diets. Not so long ago a tour boat was in this area, and it was full of kids eating something they called pepperoni pizza. A few pieces of it fell overboard. A few of my subjects were in the area and tasted the stuff floating on the water. Now they’re hooked. Seems they particularly liked the yellow stuff on top. It was kind of stringy. Do you know what that stuff’s called?”
“Mozzarella cheese,” Frank said.
“They also liked the little round red thingees on top of the mozzarella. What’s that called?”
“Pepperoni.”
“I’d be eternally grateful to you, Frank, if you could get a few pepperoni pizzas and put them in the water. I’ll add some poison. That would get rid my rebellious subjects before they spread the word about pizza and infect more in my empire with their weird dietary ideas.”
“How many pizzas do you think you need?”
“I figure seven-hundred extra-large ones would do the trick. The guys who’ll eat this have gigantic appetites.”
“Do you have any money?” Frank asked. “Extra large pizzas are pretty expensive, especially when they’re covered with pepperoni.”
“Where the hell would whales get money?” asked the King.
“I thought maybe if pizza fell overboard from passing boats, maybe a purse or two, or a few wallets might have also have dropped into the drink at one time or another.”
“No such luck. Look, my credit’s good. I am, after tall, the King of the Whales. I got connections. I could, in exchange for your generosity, fix it with great white sharks so that they’ll never attack you in case you ever fall overboard into shark infested waters. Or I could made an arrangement with all the alligators so you never get your hands bitten off, in case you ever want to pet one when you are in Florida.”
“I appreciate your offer,” said Frank. But you are talking about an expenditure on my part of about $14,000, unless you got some Pizza Hut discount coupons on hand.”
“What are coupons?”
Harry explained.
“Nope, we don’t have any of those. Tell you what I’ll do. I have a beautiful daughter. I’ve put together quite a dowry for her. Perhaps you’d be interested in marrying her.”
“How much is the dowry?”
“Oh, it’s quite rich. Two thousand tons of briny kelp. Five thousand tons of delicious seaweed.”
Harry did some quick calculations, figuring he could sell the kelp and seaweed to sushi restaurants for mega-bucks. That’d cover the cost of using his credit card to buy 700 pepperoni pizzas, ten-thousand times over.
“It’s a deal,” Harry said. “I’ll run and get the pizzas. Give me a few hours. It’s gonna take a while for them to make 700 extra-large pepperoni pizzas.”
“Okay,” said the King. “Meanwhile, I’ll get my daughter and her dowry ready for you. We can conduct the ceremony when you return. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” Harry said, trying to calculate how much he’d profit from selling a female whale to Japanese fishermen. “When I come back with the pizzas in a boat, how will I find you so I know where to drop them?”
“I’ll set off flares,” said the whale King.
Ten hours later, Harry arrived with 700 pepperoni pizzas. The King heard the boat’s engines, came to the surface, and set off several flares.
After Harry dropped all the pizzas overboard, his future bride came to the surface along with her daddy, the King.
“Oh, he’s cute, Daddy,” she said. “He looks good enough to eat.”
“Indulge yourself, my sweetie-pie,” said the King.
Harry was gone in one gulp.
The King dried the 700 pizzas, and sold them to hungry tourists who came in boats to watch whales frolic in the Pacific. He made so much money, he bought the island of Tahiti, where he lived happily ever after with his subjects---none of which had ever heard of pepperoni pizza, much less ever tasted it.
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula's flash fiction has published by 126 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He's authored two collections of flash fiction tales: "A Full Deck of Zombies - 61 Speculative Fiction Tales" and "The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales."
Michael A. Kechula
Frank was whale watching off the coast of Santa Buffoona when he heard a whale call, “Hey, Mister, what’s your name?”
“Frank,” he said, wondering if he were hallucinating.
“Well, Frank, could you do me a big favor?”
“Depends on what it is,” he said, wondering if the whale was gonna hit him up for a few bucks.
“It’s not complicated. I’m the King of the Whales. I’m facing open rebellion. Some of my subjects are fed up with their diets. Not so long ago a tour boat was in this area, and it was full of kids eating something they called pepperoni pizza. A few pieces of it fell overboard. A few of my subjects were in the area and tasted the stuff floating on the water. Now they’re hooked. Seems they particularly liked the yellow stuff on top. It was kind of stringy. Do you know what that stuff’s called?”
“Mozzarella cheese,” Frank said.
“They also liked the little round red thingees on top of the mozzarella. What’s that called?”
“Pepperoni.”
“I’d be eternally grateful to you, Frank, if you could get a few pepperoni pizzas and put them in the water. I’ll add some poison. That would get rid my rebellious subjects before they spread the word about pizza and infect more in my empire with their weird dietary ideas.”
“How many pizzas do you think you need?”
“I figure seven-hundred extra-large ones would do the trick. The guys who’ll eat this have gigantic appetites.”
“Do you have any money?” Frank asked. “Extra large pizzas are pretty expensive, especially when they’re covered with pepperoni.”
“Where the hell would whales get money?” asked the King.
“I thought maybe if pizza fell overboard from passing boats, maybe a purse or two, or a few wallets might have also have dropped into the drink at one time or another.”
“No such luck. Look, my credit’s good. I am, after tall, the King of the Whales. I got connections. I could, in exchange for your generosity, fix it with great white sharks so that they’ll never attack you in case you ever fall overboard into shark infested waters. Or I could made an arrangement with all the alligators so you never get your hands bitten off, in case you ever want to pet one when you are in Florida.”
“I appreciate your offer,” said Frank. But you are talking about an expenditure on my part of about $14,000, unless you got some Pizza Hut discount coupons on hand.”
“What are coupons?”
Harry explained.
“Nope, we don’t have any of those. Tell you what I’ll do. I have a beautiful daughter. I’ve put together quite a dowry for her. Perhaps you’d be interested in marrying her.”
“How much is the dowry?”
“Oh, it’s quite rich. Two thousand tons of briny kelp. Five thousand tons of delicious seaweed.”
Harry did some quick calculations, figuring he could sell the kelp and seaweed to sushi restaurants for mega-bucks. That’d cover the cost of using his credit card to buy 700 pepperoni pizzas, ten-thousand times over.
“It’s a deal,” Harry said. “I’ll run and get the pizzas. Give me a few hours. It’s gonna take a while for them to make 700 extra-large pepperoni pizzas.”
“Okay,” said the King. “Meanwhile, I’ll get my daughter and her dowry ready for you. We can conduct the ceremony when you return. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” Harry said, trying to calculate how much he’d profit from selling a female whale to Japanese fishermen. “When I come back with the pizzas in a boat, how will I find you so I know where to drop them?”
“I’ll set off flares,” said the whale King.
Ten hours later, Harry arrived with 700 pepperoni pizzas. The King heard the boat’s engines, came to the surface, and set off several flares.
After Harry dropped all the pizzas overboard, his future bride came to the surface along with her daddy, the King.
“Oh, he’s cute, Daddy,” she said. “He looks good enough to eat.”
“Indulge yourself, my sweetie-pie,” said the King.
Harry was gone in one gulp.
The King dried the 700 pizzas, and sold them to hungry tourists who came in boats to watch whales frolic in the Pacific. He made so much money, he bought the island of Tahiti, where he lived happily ever after with his subjects---none of which had ever heard of pepperoni pizza, much less ever tasted it.
- - -
BIO: Michael A. Kechula's flash fiction has published by 126 magazines and 35 anthologies in 6 countries. He's authored two collections of flash fiction tales: "A Full Deck of Zombies - 61 Speculative Fiction Tales" and "The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales."
WALLS
By Michael A. Kechula
“The strangest thing happened to me in my Witchcraft And Religion class,” said Lisa, as we lunched in a coffee shop. “On Tuesday, the prof said we had a guest speaker. A practicing witch.”
“Was she good looking?” I asked.
“She was stunning. All the guys were going crazy over her. Anyway, she started talking about black magic, which she said she didn’t practice. And while she was lecturing, I don’t know why it happened, but I suddenly saw her tied up and burning at the stake. I even heard the flames crackling. All of a sudden she stopped talking in mid-sentence and looked right at me. Her face looked so twisted and distorted. And in the creepiest voice, she said, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’ That scared the hell outta me.”
“Geez, that’s weird,” I said, as chills raced down my arms.
“As if that wasn’t bad enough, she pointed right at me, and suddenly I saw a brick wall rushing toward me. It was as real as the chair I’m sitting on. Just as it was about to smash into my face, I screamed and ran out of the room. I heard her calling to me, ‘Don’t ever try that again!’”
“Wow!”
“I dropped the class, immediately. I’ve been scared ever since. What if she’s pissed, because I sensed that she really does practice black magic? What if she checked the seating chart, or asked the professor my name? What if she finds out I have a baby? Will she hex me and my daughter?”
“I think you better start praying.”
“I haven’t stopped since it happened. I’m telling everybody I know never to take that class.”
Suddenly, Lisa grabbed my arm. “Oh my God! She’s here! She’s standing by the door. She’s staring at me.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll protect you.”
“Well, well, well,” said the gorgeous woman, as she approached our table, “if it isn’t the little lady who wants to see me burned at the stake.”
Lisa blanched, then screamed.
During the pandemonium that followed, I remember the woman pointing at me and saying, “What do YOU see when you look at me, Mister?
“I see you naked on a bed.”
“Good. Look me up. I think you’re hot.”
Then I swear she disappeared.
When the cops arrived, I told them, “When Lisa saw the woman, she screamed. Suddenly her body flew backward about ten feet, as if something had slammed into her. Her face was smashed to a pulp.”
I didn’t tell them what happened in Lisa’s class. Nor did I tell them that the woman pointed at me, asked what I saw, then disappeared into thin air. I didn’t want to spend time on a funny farm in a straightjacket.
Lisa was buried a few days later.
Since then, every night I’ve dreamed about her death. I see a brick wall rushing toward her and smashing her face. But the next dream is about the stunning woman I saw in the coffee shop. I see her in bed in every dream. And I’m right there with her.
The dream about the witch always arouses me tremendously. So much so, I’ve thought about finding out where she lives. But, if we end up in bed together—like in my recurring dream—what’ll happen to me if I look at her lovely face...and see her burning at the stake?
- - -
Michael A. Kechula's fiction has been published in 123 magazines and 33 anthologies. He’s authored 2 books of flash fiction stories: “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” Both eBooks available at www.BooksForABuck.com. Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
By Michael A. Kechula
“The strangest thing happened to me in my Witchcraft And Religion class,” said Lisa, as we lunched in a coffee shop. “On Tuesday, the prof said we had a guest speaker. A practicing witch.”
“Was she good looking?” I asked.
“She was stunning. All the guys were going crazy over her. Anyway, she started talking about black magic, which she said she didn’t practice. And while she was lecturing, I don’t know why it happened, but I suddenly saw her tied up and burning at the stake. I even heard the flames crackling. All of a sudden she stopped talking in mid-sentence and looked right at me. Her face looked so twisted and distorted. And in the creepiest voice, she said, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’ That scared the hell outta me.”
“Geez, that’s weird,” I said, as chills raced down my arms.
“As if that wasn’t bad enough, she pointed right at me, and suddenly I saw a brick wall rushing toward me. It was as real as the chair I’m sitting on. Just as it was about to smash into my face, I screamed and ran out of the room. I heard her calling to me, ‘Don’t ever try that again!’”
“Wow!”
“I dropped the class, immediately. I’ve been scared ever since. What if she’s pissed, because I sensed that she really does practice black magic? What if she checked the seating chart, or asked the professor my name? What if she finds out I have a baby? Will she hex me and my daughter?”
“I think you better start praying.”
“I haven’t stopped since it happened. I’m telling everybody I know never to take that class.”
Suddenly, Lisa grabbed my arm. “Oh my God! She’s here! She’s standing by the door. She’s staring at me.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll protect you.”
“Well, well, well,” said the gorgeous woman, as she approached our table, “if it isn’t the little lady who wants to see me burned at the stake.”
Lisa blanched, then screamed.
During the pandemonium that followed, I remember the woman pointing at me and saying, “What do YOU see when you look at me, Mister?
“I see you naked on a bed.”
“Good. Look me up. I think you’re hot.”
Then I swear she disappeared.
When the cops arrived, I told them, “When Lisa saw the woman, she screamed. Suddenly her body flew backward about ten feet, as if something had slammed into her. Her face was smashed to a pulp.”
I didn’t tell them what happened in Lisa’s class. Nor did I tell them that the woman pointed at me, asked what I saw, then disappeared into thin air. I didn’t want to spend time on a funny farm in a straightjacket.
Lisa was buried a few days later.
Since then, every night I’ve dreamed about her death. I see a brick wall rushing toward her and smashing her face. But the next dream is about the stunning woman I saw in the coffee shop. I see her in bed in every dream. And I’m right there with her.
The dream about the witch always arouses me tremendously. So much so, I’ve thought about finding out where she lives. But, if we end up in bed together—like in my recurring dream—what’ll happen to me if I look at her lovely face...and see her burning at the stake?
- - -
Michael A. Kechula's fiction has been published in 123 magazines and 33 anthologies. He’s authored 2 books of flash fiction stories: “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” Both eBooks available at www.BooksForABuck.com. Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
BEAKS
Michael A. Kechula
Harry woke with a start. “Where the hell am I?” he yelled when he looked up from the ground and saw a huge, black, iron snake coiled on a concrete pedestal, as if ready to strike. “Why are my wrists and ankles tied to stakes? Help! Police!”
“Save your breath,” somebody said. “Nobody can hear you.”
“What am I doing here?” Seeing lots of trees, he figured he was in a large park.
“You tell us what you’re doing here, and why you egged the sacred statue of Jaxil, our most beloved and holy God.” The voice came from a man wearing a mask that make him look like a weird bird. A long, jagged beak protruded from the mask.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“See this egg carton? It held eighteen eggs. You brought it here and threw every one of them at God, striking him eighteen times. You’ve committed horrible, multiple sacrileges!”
“Look. I don’t know anything about eggs, or your god. Last thing I knew I was driving home from a bachelor party in Mill Town. Am I still in Mill Town?”
“It doesn’t matter where you are. You were drunk and raged at our God. You called Him an ugly monstrous bastard. How dare you! That’s not only blasphemy but also a dastardly hate crime. Now you must pay.”
“I’m positive I didn’t do anything to your god. You got the wrong guy. I wouldn’t do anything to offend anybody’s religious beliefs or insult their god.”
Harry heard screeching birdcalls. When he strained to see where the sound came from, he saw six others wearing bird masks heading his way. All carried supermarket shopping bags.
The masked men surrounded Harry. The one with the largest beak said, “Time to pay for your heinous crime.”
They tore off Harry’s clothes. Standing a few feet away, they made shrill bird noises, as they removed egg cartons from their shopping bags, and pelted him with eggs.
“Ow! That hurts! Please stop!” he hollered, as eggs crashed against his body. “I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again. I swear!”
They threw the eggs with more force. Soon Harry’s entire body was covered with slimy yolk, egg whites, and shell fragments. His face was so saturated, egg goo flooded his nose each time he inhaled.
Before long, streams of muck ran down his throat and into his lungs. Straining to breathe, Harry turned blue and convulsed. Still the eggs came.
When they ran out of eggs, someone felt Harry’s pulse.
“He’s dead.”
Cutting the ropes that bound Harry, they dragged his slimy corpse closer to the statue. Removing six bags of grated cheddar cheese from their shopping bags, they offered it to their Snake God with high-pitched bird squawks. Then they sprinkled the cheese all over Harry’s corpse.
With outstretched arms they cried, “Accept this human food offering, Great and Mighty Jaxil.”
Hopping like birds and chanting, “May this sacrifice ascend as an odor of sweetness to propitiate for this man’s most horrendous and grievous evils,” they circled the statue three times. Then their leader poured charcoal fluid over Harry and struck a match. When his cheese and egg covered corpse caught fire, their hops and squawks became more frantic.
Suddenly, they fell on their knees.
“Almighty Jaxil has spoken to me,” their leader said. “He has graciously accepted our sacrifice and is appeased. Now he invites us to commune with him by partaking of this sacred omelet.”
Frenzied beaks tore into the mass of toasted eggs, cheese, and human tissue.
- - -
Michael A. Kechula's fiction has been published in 123 magazines and 33 anthologies. He’s authored 2 books of flash fiction stories: “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” Both eBooks available at www.BooksForABuck.com. Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
Michael A. Kechula
Harry woke with a start. “Where the hell am I?” he yelled when he looked up from the ground and saw a huge, black, iron snake coiled on a concrete pedestal, as if ready to strike. “Why are my wrists and ankles tied to stakes? Help! Police!”
“Save your breath,” somebody said. “Nobody can hear you.”
“What am I doing here?” Seeing lots of trees, he figured he was in a large park.
“You tell us what you’re doing here, and why you egged the sacred statue of Jaxil, our most beloved and holy God.” The voice came from a man wearing a mask that make him look like a weird bird. A long, jagged beak protruded from the mask.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“See this egg carton? It held eighteen eggs. You brought it here and threw every one of them at God, striking him eighteen times. You’ve committed horrible, multiple sacrileges!”
“Look. I don’t know anything about eggs, or your god. Last thing I knew I was driving home from a bachelor party in Mill Town. Am I still in Mill Town?”
“It doesn’t matter where you are. You were drunk and raged at our God. You called Him an ugly monstrous bastard. How dare you! That’s not only blasphemy but also a dastardly hate crime. Now you must pay.”
“I’m positive I didn’t do anything to your god. You got the wrong guy. I wouldn’t do anything to offend anybody’s religious beliefs or insult their god.”
Harry heard screeching birdcalls. When he strained to see where the sound came from, he saw six others wearing bird masks heading his way. All carried supermarket shopping bags.
The masked men surrounded Harry. The one with the largest beak said, “Time to pay for your heinous crime.”
They tore off Harry’s clothes. Standing a few feet away, they made shrill bird noises, as they removed egg cartons from their shopping bags, and pelted him with eggs.
“Ow! That hurts! Please stop!” he hollered, as eggs crashed against his body. “I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again. I swear!”
They threw the eggs with more force. Soon Harry’s entire body was covered with slimy yolk, egg whites, and shell fragments. His face was so saturated, egg goo flooded his nose each time he inhaled.
Before long, streams of muck ran down his throat and into his lungs. Straining to breathe, Harry turned blue and convulsed. Still the eggs came.
When they ran out of eggs, someone felt Harry’s pulse.
“He’s dead.”
Cutting the ropes that bound Harry, they dragged his slimy corpse closer to the statue. Removing six bags of grated cheddar cheese from their shopping bags, they offered it to their Snake God with high-pitched bird squawks. Then they sprinkled the cheese all over Harry’s corpse.
With outstretched arms they cried, “Accept this human food offering, Great and Mighty Jaxil.”
Hopping like birds and chanting, “May this sacrifice ascend as an odor of sweetness to propitiate for this man’s most horrendous and grievous evils,” they circled the statue three times. Then their leader poured charcoal fluid over Harry and struck a match. When his cheese and egg covered corpse caught fire, their hops and squawks became more frantic.
Suddenly, they fell on their knees.
“Almighty Jaxil has spoken to me,” their leader said. “He has graciously accepted our sacrifice and is appeased. Now he invites us to commune with him by partaking of this sacred omelet.”
Frenzied beaks tore into the mass of toasted eggs, cheese, and human tissue.
- - -
Michael A. Kechula's fiction has been published in 123 magazines and 33 anthologies. He’s authored 2 books of flash fiction stories: “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales,” and “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” Both eBooks available at www.BooksForABuck.com. Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.
